


Sightings

by OverWroughtThought



Category: Acquisitions Inc., Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), The "C" Team, The Shadow Council
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-16 00:45:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14152986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverWroughtThought/pseuds/OverWroughtThought
Summary: Whenever two Shadow Council members meet, you expect things to get a little strange.  These encounters are weirder than that.  In fact, we're probably better off forgetting them entirely.





	1. Absentee

**Author's Note:**

> [MaxwellsDeamon](https://twitter.com/MaxwellsDeamon) is the creator of Aekeek, Shadow Procter for the Shadow Council, Information Network Specialist. I have borrowed this fine feathered friend for this story and hope I have done the character some degree of justice. The eponymous OWT is mine, muddled collection of neurotic intentions that they are. This work of Shadow Proxy Fiction inspired by [Jurian Was Here: An Adventure Diary](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13736826/chapters/31562520) by KingNewbs.

10,000 feet in the air was the last place Aekeek expected to hear shouting.

He hovered, wings outstretched to ride a helpful thermal, keen eyes observing troop movements far below. His client's suspicions confirmed at last. The Lady Stursk was definitely amassing an army, in clear violation of the treaty she signed not two months prior. A piece of information her neighbors would pay handsomely for, especially if the report included an accurate troop count, mapped supply line routes, and a combat readiness assessment. All of which Aekeek would happily provide for a reasonable fee.

The aarakocra watched the soldiers run through drills in a secluded valley several miles from the Stursk Keep. His avian eyes could pick out details even at this distance with little trouble, but while he could see the clashing blades, no sound filtered up this high. In the thin, crisp air, only the whistle of wind or the occasional bird call disturbed the peaceful silence.

"Hello! Hello?" the voice was just on the edge of shrill, with an odd, barely perceptible echo. Aekeek nearly dropped his notebook, scrambling to hook his claws around the leather before it plummeted to the ground over a mile below. He glanced around, searching for an air balloon or ship. Nothing, except for a passing flock of geese to his left.

"Could you help --?" hollered the reedy voice, cutting off when the flock of birds broke from their formation, scattering around a nearby cloud bank to reform a small distance away. As the geese passed Aekeek, they looked just as confused as he felt.

"Oh dear, there they go," the voice said, sounding forlorn. "Well, of course. 'Hello' is awfully familiar, isn't it? Do you think they were offended? I bet they were offended. Rude of you, very rude."

A gust of wind pushed Aekeek a few feet higher. A puff of gauzy white cloud shifted, exposing a black spot near its center. It looked like a drop of tar stuck in the air. Aekeek blinked, focusing his eyes on this curious object far closer than the troops below. Among shifting vapor the bulbous creature stood completely stationary, the tattered ends of a massive black cloak unaffected by the air currents ruffling Aekeek's feathers.

A strange melancholy washed over him. He remembered an old client, one he hadn't seen in years. She always insisted on meeting him at the window of her attic. Aekeek perched on a tiny decorative balcony for their exchanges, his carefully crafted maps traded for her hefty bags of coin. Over the woman's shoulder, he'd see piles of discarded junk, hastily covered with tarps and left to gather cobwebs and dust.

The black bulk in the cloud bank would not look out of place in that attic of forgotten things.

The tattered lump on the top of the pile rotated and Aekeek realized that beneath the cloth was a head, although even when it was in profile, no hint of a face was visible. The neck was inconsistently long, but always an off-putting distance from the slouching hunch of its shoulders.

Its vision must be very poor, if it hadn't spotted him yet. Instead it turned to a nearby cloud and raised two arms on its left side, both hidden by heaps of tattered cloth.

Aekeek blinked. No, it was just one arm. Not two. Why had he thought there were two?

"Excuse me?" the thing shouted at the cloud. "We're in a spot of trouble and we could use --"

A gust of wind tore through the air. Aekeek wobbled, dropping a few feet before finding a new equilibrium. The force of the blast should have torn the creature's cloak, but it didn't move an inch. The cloud it had been talking to, however, dissipated.

The figured heaved a sigh. "Can't blame them for leaving," it said. "'Excuse me' isn't very assertive at all, is it? Why don't you throw in a 'pardon me' while you're at it? So wishy washy. And who goes around saying 'we'? Nobody. Nobody, that's who! Except royalty. They probably think you're putting on airs. Stuck up, that's how you come across."

It adjusted the satchel around its shoulders, the flesh under the cloak seeming to shift and squirm until it partially absorbed a portion of the strap. The bag was filled to bursting with rolls of parchment. Many of them appeared to be maps. Despite his better judgement, Aekeek found himself curious.

With a few heavy wing beats, he approached.

"Do you -- uh -- need something?" he asked in his best common, coming up behind the creature.

"AUGH!" it shrieked, with what sounded like multiple voices at once. The thing spun around, snagged a foot in its own cloak, and fell over in a heap in the cloud bank. Aekeek briefly saw two scrawny legs sticking out of the bundled mass, each limb completely covered by threadbare black socks, terminating in faded leather slippers. Then it gathered itself back up, clutching the satchel.

"HELLO! EXCUSE ME! PARDON ME!" it said in quick succession, head bobbing, then laughed nervously, fiddling with the strap of the satchel. "You can see me? You can see me! Oh good. We were -- No, _I_ was, normal people say I -- " Another nervous laugh bubbled out, but cut off so quickly it resembled a hiccup. "I was starting to think I wasn't really here again."

"I see you," Aekeek confirmed. He found another thermal, looping around the cloud in slow circles. The creature turned its head nearly all the way around to follow his path. There was a slight glow of light in the deep shadow beneath the cowl. "Heard you ask for help," he said.

"Most people go the other way when they hear us say that. You must be a very altruistic and generous soul!" the thing replied enthusiastically. It clasped its hands together, or at least, what he assumed were hands. Aekeek could not see anything beneath the rags, only vague shapes. "It's very nice to meet you!" the creature exclaimed. "Your name is…?"

"Aekeek," he provided.

"Aekeek," the creature exclaimed. "Delighted! Ecstatic! Ever so pleased!" It pulled a leather bound notebook and crystal fountain pen from its satchel. The pen, once released from the bag, floated of its own accord while the creature eagerly flipped through their notes. Finding a blank page, it opened the book wide and held it steady while the pen recorded his name in a swirling cursive.

"AAAAAAeeeeekeeeeeeeek," it said aloud as the pen wrote.

There was an extended silence as they stared at one another.

"Your name?" he asked the creature at last, when none seemed forthcoming.

"A name? Oh, of sorts. You can call us anything, really, we don't mind," it replied breezily.

"What your friends call you?" he pressed.

It laughed loudly. At length.

Then paused.

"Oh, you were serious. Yes, we have those. Of course we do," it paused, flipping through the pages of the book, "but they have their own names for us. Our title -- more of a descriptive phrase, really -- is OverWrought Thought. Sometimes I go by O.W.T. Other times by Owt. You know, like 'get owt!' Lots of folks use that one. I don't care much for 'Get' as a name though. 'Wrought' isn't bad. Some days we feel like a Wrought. Or _I_ do."

It continued to list off various names, some of them in common, others in a variety of languages Aekeek couldn't place. (Phla'ta Phindar? Was that drow?) He let his attention wander. Something about the title sounded familiar, but he just couldn't place it…

"AWK!" he squawked, as it clicked in his mind. "You _OverWrought Thought_?" he asked, with a snap of his fingers.

"Yes?" the thing squeaked, hunching even lower as though anticipating a blow. "Do you want me to go?"

"I have something for you," Aekeek told them, and reached into his bag.

* * *

 It had been nearly a year ago.

The Shadow Council didn't exactly have a home office, per se, but any time there's an organization, there's bureaucracy to go with it. Zenida considered herself at the head of that paperwork machine (although many others would make the same claim) as a self-appointed Secretarian. Aekeek didn't debate the title with her. She paid well, liked to stay informed, and had excellent taste in shiny things.         

He slid his findings across her solid oak desk. In turn, she pushed a sack of coin towards him.

"I included a few trinkets in there as well," she said. "I know you have a collector's eye for such things."

He opened the bag and clucked appreciatively over the crystal brooch she'd included. It glimmered fetchingly in the light. She leaned back in her tall leather chair, assessing him.

"Aekeek," she began, her tone pensive, "have you ever taken on a missing person case?"

"Good at finding things," he said, feathers around his neck puffing up with a hint of pride. "Finding people not much different."

She leaned forward. His gaze momentarily caught by the light glinting off the half-orc's many gold rings. "That may be," she said, "but this is an unusual case. Seeing as nobody's sure this person is even real."

Aekeek cocked his head to the side. "If not real, how they go missing?"

She laughed, standing to walk across the room to a cabinet, opening it with a key. "Well, it's the damnedest thing. You know that not all council members make it to the annual meeting, right? So long ago, before my time, the council started offering absentee ballots for major votes."

"I know. I use sometimes," he said. He traveled a lot for work. "Always surprised when letter shows up. Sometimes gets to place before me."

"You'd be amazed at what magic can do," she mused. "Even I'm not exactly sure how the spell works. Scrying magic, of some sort? Anyway, every year there's one ballot that gets made, but never gets delivered." She opened the cabinet and pulled out a folded and sealed packet of papers. "It's been that way since I got here. Bjorn, you know, in Occulting? He says this has been going on since the absentee ballots began. Except he thinks it's a malfunction in the spell. So…"

She held the document in both hands, looking to the side a little sheepishly.

"At the last council mixer, he and I may have gotten…a _little_ drunk. And we may have made a _little_ bet," she said.

"How much?" he asked.   

"6,000 gold pieces," she confessed.

" _6,000?"_ he squawked.

"Okay, okay, so we might have been more than _a little_ drunk!" She flushed. "Still! A bet is a bet, and I'm going to honor it. I said this year I would find OverWrought Thought and get their vote for the annual meeting. The problem is, I don't travel much and this person doesn't exactly stay in the same place." She looked down at the paper in her hands and held it out to him. "Well, just see for yourself."

He took it curiously, examining the address. Or rather, addresses. The first had been written in the center of the parchment, bold and clear.

> _OverWrought Thought_
> 
> _5 Feet South of the Well of Abandoned Dreams_
> 
> _Plane of Tortured Metaphors_

That had been crossed out with a heavy black pen. Above it, a new address had been written.

> _Closet of Room 12_
> 
> _The Drunken Weasel Inn_
> 
> _Mirabar_
> 
> _Material Plane_

This had also been crossed out, this time in red. In smaller letters, off to the side, yet another address had been added.

> _Knee deep in the Marsh of Chelimber_
> 
> _Eastern edge, 300 paces north of the hermit's hut_
> 
> _Material Plane (Mostly)_

It was not the last address. The ballot was covered in crossed out locations, some of them places he'd heard of, many he hadn't. A few he suspected were not real.

He glanced up. "See why Bjorn thinks this a, uh, mal-func-tion. Not heard of Plane of Tor-tured Meta-phors."

She shrugged. "I looked into it. It might exist? There _are_ real places on there. At least half of them, I'd say."

The document twitched in his hand. He watched in amazement as the most recent location was scribbled out with furious vigor, as though even the spell was at the end of its patience. In tiny letters, a new address was added.

> _Stuck in a tree of shrieking bone_
> 
> _Bank of the River Styx_
> 
> _Cathrys, Lower Plane_     

"Uh, Lower Plane? That…demonic?" he asked, chirping nervously. "What kind of…person...this OverWrought Thought?"

"Well, they're part of the Council," Zenida said. "How bad could they be?"

The room went quiet as they both considered their fellow council members. Zenida coughed awkwardly.

"Look, I'm not expecting you to work a miracle here," she said. "It was a stupid, drunk bet. I know it's a long shot. All I'm asking is that you check the address now and then and see if maybe you can find them. If not, I can afford the loss. But if you do…" her face lit up with fiendish glee and she rubbed her hands together. "Then I get to rub my victory in Bjorn's _smug face_ for the _rest of his life."_

"And what I get?" he asked.

"I'll split the winnings with you, 50/50," she said.

He nodded, tucking the ballot away. "Deal."

* * *

He pulled the ballot out of his bag. The surface was nearly black with ink. He turned it over in his hands, looking for the newest address. Sure enough, in script so fine even he struggled to read it, it said:

> _Cloud 10,000 feet up_
> 
> _Hidden Valley, seven miles southwest of Lady Stursk's Keep_
> 
> _Material Plane (More or Less)_

He shook his head, clucking in amazement and amusement, and held the document out.

"Here," he said, presenting it with a playful flourish. "This for you."

"A present? Oh, how marvelous! Lovely! You're so kind!" OWT waved their hands with excitement, and for a moment Aekeek saw afterimages of several additional arms. He blinked and they were gone again. The creature reached out with childlike glee.

Their hand passed straight through the paper.

"Oh," they said, dejected. The shoulders sunk even farther down. "Well, that explains it. I'm not really here after all. At least, not all of me."

Aekeek wasn't sure what to say. The thing sounded so sad.

"Well…at least you don't fall?" he offered at last.

"That's true!" OWT's head came up, mood turning abruptly from abject despair to enthusiastic joy. There was a flair of light under the hood of their cloak. "I hadn't thought of it that way!"

"And is not bad view," Aekeek added.

"Yes! Yes, it's a wonderful view! Oh, do you know what mountain that is?" they asked. They flipped the buckle on their satchel and pulled out a massive sheet of parchment. "I can update my Material Plane map!"

"That Malanger Peak, I think," Aekeek said. "Down there Bratana River. Feed into the Delimbiyr far down," he pointed to the distance where the two rivers would eventually meet.

The glowing orb of light brightened, but he still could not see any facial features. Nonetheless, Aekeek was reminded of a wide-eyed child.

"You know so much!" OWT gasped. "Tell me more! Where else have you gone?"

They held the map out, pen frantically scribbling. Aekeek did his best to hover in the thermal, pointing out various locations. They discovered they'd both visited the same Inn in Orogoth ("Well, I was in the alley next to it for a while," OWT said, "but it sounded like a nice place from outside!") and had met the same cantankerous sorcerer in the Turnback Mountains ("He's a Shadow Council member too? No way! He threw a bottle through my head! Wow!") and had even attended the same festival in Ruathym on the same year, although on different ends of the city.

Aekeek started making notes of his own. He traded his news from the larger, more populated areas for their observations of the far reaches of Faerune, mentally filing away leads to investigate. If even half of what this creature said was true, he'd have some very profitable information to sell in the near future.

"Why not ever visit larger cities?" he asked. "Waterdeep, maybe?"

"Oh, no, I couldn't," they said. "I don't belong there. And I hate crowds." As they spoke, the black cloak seemed to widen and their voice took on a hollow quality, distant and vague. "I always feel very…scattered. Just thinking about it…oh dear, oh dear, it makes me so nervous…" 

Aekeek squinted, his eyes stinging as he looked at the strange creature before him. They were surrounded by flickering images, each with a different number of arms and legs. Some with faces, some without, all with burning eyes, running together like melted wax. A noise Aekeek couldn't place filled his ears, like a shriek of wind, or a whistle, or a rumbling horn. Waves of searing heat and freezing cold blew by in quick succession and a wave of nausea hit him.

OWT took a gulping breath and seemed to shrink, the blurring images snapping back to a single silhouette. They dropped six feet deeper into the cloud and for a moment Aekeek was sure they would plummet from the sky. With a shriek of dismay he reached out to catch them, but his hand passed through their shoulder. They stopped moving.

"What were we talking about?" OWT asked, looking up at him as if nothing had happened.

"Not important," he said, pulling out of his aborted dive and tucking his notebook safely away. He took out the ballot again. "Listen.  You can't fill this out, but I can read for you. Mark your votes?"

"That would be lovely! Yes, please! You're most generous, Aekeek. Most generous!" They clapped their hands eagerly, as if reviewing the frequently tedious and byzantine language of Shadow Council proposals sounded like the most fascinating activity in the world.

He opened the document and cleared his throat.  His common was passable, and he was far better at writing and reading it than speaking it.  Still, Shadow Council business could be a challenge for even native speakers. "'Where-in the...est - est-eemed members of this...au-gust group, here-to-fore.'  Heretofore?  What is this word? 'Reffff-erred to as the Shadow Council, and here-after ref-referred to by…" he trailed off, glancing at OWT's unblinking orb of light that he'd come to think of as their eyes. They were settled cross-legged in the cloud, elbows propped on gangly knees, head in what he presumed were hands, staring at him with rapt attention. "You okay if I...I give summary?" he asked.

"Whatever you like!" OWT replied.

"So first one about debt deadline.  Should change deadline of payment for folks who live through whole Nemezir thing."

"Nemezir thing?" OWT asked.

"Magic tree ate a city," he summarized.

"Ooooh. I thought they only ate dirt," OWT said.

"Not this one. What you want to vote? Yes or no?"

"Oh dear. Uh. Hmm. Well, it sounds like that was bad for a lot of people, so the kind thing would be to forgive the debt entirely," one hand came out as if they were examining this point of view on their hidden palm.

"On the other hand," their voice took on a rasping edge, the shrill tones dropping to a deeper gravel dripping with venom, "People take advantage when they see you as weak. If kindness is weakness and weakness means pain, then the strong thing would be to squeeze them for whatever they're worth." A second hand came out, this one curling into a fist. The glow of the eye pulsed red.

"Then again, tyranny breeds unrest, and unrest inevitably to the toppling of governance," the voice brightened again, a third hand appearing as the red light vanished. "So the pragmatic thing is develop a reasonable payment plan that takes into account their circumstances."

"Of course, they made the choice to get into debt in the first place," a fourth hand manifested. It trembled and twitched. Smoke rose from it in a hazy cloud. "If they couldn't take on the risk, they shouldn't have taken on the debt. The rules are the rules. If they can't pay in coin, take it in service. _Take it in blood."_

"Even so --" they were gasping now. The air around them flickered with gathering afterimages. "Even so -- maybe we should consider -- the alternatives for --"

"Ballot has Abstain option," Aekeek interrupted. "Maybe that better fit?"

"Yes," they wheezed, rocking back and forth. "Yes, let's go with that one. What's next?"

He hurriedly marked the item and moved on. "Want to add second front.  For money flow.  Some people think what we do now not, uh...not secret enough.  Is not...discrete?  Yes, not discrete."

"Abstain," OWT said.

"Next is about halfling, name Rosie Beest-"

" _Abstain,"_ OWT said again.

Down the list they went, Aekeek carefully checking off the _Abstain_ option for each, OWT slumping farther into a dejected little ball. At last they reached the bottom.

"This one about…If we keep send out absentee ballots," he said.

"Oh," OWT perked up. "Yes on that one. I like to do my part."

Aekeek looked at the list of votes, none of which contained an opinion either way. Without comment, he ticked _Yes_ in the final box.

"Hmm…that everything. 'Cept for signature," he said. "Not sure how you do that part, but maybe they accept without one?"

"Let me try something…" the creature said, digging around in their satchel. At last they pulled out a seal he recognized instantly. He had one just like it, as did all the members of the Shadow Council. OWT gestured for him to bring the document closer. He flapped his wings, holding it in range. OWT took a deep breath, orb of light narrowing to a slit, and pressed the seal forward.

It met the paper.

There was a crack of thunder, a burst of heat, and an explosion of force. Aekeek careened end over end through the air, desperately flapping his wings as he fell. At last he was able to right himself, several thousand feet down. He caught a thermal back up, looking around. The creature was gone.

His ears were ringing and his mind felt muddled. He shook his head, the entire interaction feeling increasingly unreal. Had he been day dreaming?

No. He looked at the document, neat check marks down the list. At the bottom burned a signature. Signed in gold? No, red. No, green. Every time he looked at it, he saw a different color. Not that he could look at it for long without feeling increasingly ill. He hastily folded it up. On the back, somehow visible over the mess of crossed out addresses, a stamp in red ink had appeared.

_DELIVERED._

He tucked it away, shaking his head. There were worse ways to earn 3,000 gold.


	2. Lost Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This sighting takes place long before Aekeek flew the strange skies above Stursk Keep. Hundreds of years in fact, right after [these events](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13736826/chapters/31956153) recorded in Jurian's Adventure Diary. Jurian belongs to KingNewbs, who has the responsibility for putting Jurian through her initial trauma. I take responsibility for making it worse.

Jurian couldn't remember how she got there.

The trees towered over her, dark and silent sentinels only dimly visible against the cloudy night sky. Rain plopped down between branches and thunder rumbled. Nothing looked familiar. The Grandmothers said that a Daughter of the EPA was always at home in the grove, but none of this felt like home.

There were holes in her lavender dress, tears and mud along the hem. The sleeve on her right shoulder was stained a deep rust brown, the muscles around the discoloration sore and tender. The dress was new. Had been new. This morning, when she and father…

She stumbled over a slick stone, falling heavily. When she looked down, she saw only one of her brother's boots. The other was missing. Her exposed foot throbbed from a mess of scratches and cuts, the one in the boot from blisters. Both were freezing cold and growing numb.

Jurian pushed herself up and found a delicate ebonwood marionette in one hand. It was missing a leg. She shivered, clutching it close. It was special. A gift. Father had given it to her before…

The boot. She had to find the missing boot. It belonged to her brother. He'd be so mad when he came back. Jerriod _would_ come back. He never said so in his letters, but she knew. And he'd want both his boots there when he did.

Lightning burst above her as she retraced her path. In the flash she saw her own footsteps in the wet earth. A gust of wind rattled through the trees.

_scritch scritch_

She froze, breath rapid. It was just wet branches rubbing together. A sound she'd heard hundreds of times.

_scritch scritch_

There was a squeak to it. The image of worms writhing in the mud flashed through her mind, but something seemed off about it. Her stomach heaved. Worms. Worms squirming. Squirming on a face...

_scritch scritch_

She was running. There were no trees nearby. Her arms were covered in scrapes, like she'd fallen through a bramble, but she had no memory of such a tumble. She was on the edge of a swollen creek, the rain transforming it into a churning froth of mud. Water sloshed in her single oversized boot. Jurian lurched to a halt, air burning in her lungs. The marionette still clutched in her hand was missing an arm now too. Her entire body trembled. Cold. So very cold.

Where was she going? The boot. She had to find the boot.

A gusty sigh interrupted her thoughts. She froze like a rabbit, quivering.

"We _would_ be corporeal _here._ In the rain," said a hollow, reedy voice. "Not on that nice beach, no. Never on the beach. We're never really around when the weather is _nice."  
_

Slowly, glacially, she turned. A huge, bulbous figure stood not six feet from her in the creek, the water sloshing around its ankles. The ends of a long black cloak churned in the froth, tangling with passing debris. The creature stared upward, hooded face turned towards the sky. She kept expecting the cloth to fall backwards, but it seemed fixed in place. In the darkness, a glow emanated from under the cowl. Every time a raindrop fell into that light, Jurian heard a hiss and saw a tiny puff of steam. The thing slumped, looking down at its feet in the water with another dejected sigh.

"These shoes are going to take _days_ to dry out. _Days._ We can tell. We'll leave puddles everywhere. Nobody likes a puddle person, you know."

Miraculously, it seemed oblivious to Jurian's presence. She took a slow, careful step back. Then another. The cloaked figure continued to mutter to itself, paying her no mind. She spun about and ran.

"Oh!" it said behind her. A burst of panic sped her frantic feet. She reached a small bank, hands tearing at the grass as she pulled herself up, certain the stranger would be upon her any moment.

"There's a boot here," the thing said. "Hello Boot! Are you lost?"

Jurian stopped. Turned. In the dim light, she saw the creature holding a leather boot, a mate to the one still on her foot.

"You're looking for someone? Or someone's looking for you?" the cloaked figure said to the boot. "Of course we'll help. Finding Lost Things is what we do."

"That's -- that's mine!" she shouted, unthinking.

The cloaked figure squeaked, spinning around and sloshing backwards farther into the creek. The water was up to the creature's knees now, but it seemed unperturbed by the force of the current. It clutched the boot in front of it, shielding itself with the sodden leather. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then a glowing orb of light peaked out from behind the footwear.

"Hello?" it said.

For some reason, she thought of the trunk in Jerriod's room. Full of things he'd left behind. Old childhood toys, discarded drawings. Papers he wrote for school. A broken lute, sized for a child, which he'd never played much. Sometimes she'd go through that trunk, when she started forgetting how his voice sounded or what his face looked like. This thing seemed like it belonged in that trunk, if it was just a little smaller.

Suddenly she wasn't scared anymore.

"That's my boot," she said again. She pointed to the one still on her foot. "See?"

"It is? It is! Well isn't this wonderful!" It turned to the boot and said, "What did we tell you? We're very good at this. Oh, uh, not to be arrogant about it. We didn't mean to imply -- We do have _some_ skill, but, well, I'm sure anybody could have done it. It's all just luck, actually. We didn't do anything. We may as well not even be here. We - " The creature cut itself off with a deep breath, sloshed out of the creek, and presented her with the boot. "Here's your boot," it said lamely.

She took it gingerly. It was soaked through and cold. Nonetheless, Jurian put it on. It didn't make her foot feel any better, but she stood straighter. She looked up, into the dim glow of the creature's cowl. "Thank you," she said. The Grandmothers taught her that politeness was important. She held out her hand.

"I'm Jurian," she told it.

"Jurian. So nice to meet you," the thing replied. It did not take her hand, but bobbed in a fitful bow.

"Who are you?" she asked it.

"Oh, I'm, we're, well…" it wrung its hands, head turning this way and that. "You can call us Wrought today. We feel very Wrought right now. Something in the air, I think."

She thought of worms again, and tried not to be sick.

"Are you all right, Jurian?" Wrought asked her. "You're breathing very fast. And your face is wet."

"I don't know where I am," she sobbed. The tears burned hot across her cheeks. She hadn't felt scared or sad or anything before, but all of a sudden her heart came undone. "I don't know how I got here. I'm lost. I'm lost and I don't know what to do." She scrubbed at her eyes, clutching the broken marionette close. The slick ebonwood gleamed darkly in the faint glow of Wrought's face.

"Oh dear, oh dear," the creature said. "Are you a Lost Thing? We're a Lost Thing too, Jurian." They leaned over her, hands on bent knees. They seemed bigger somehow. She thought she heard whispers, but she couldn't make out the words.

"We collect Lost Things," Wrought continued. "Do you want to come with us, Jurian?"

She looked up. The creature didn't look like a figure in a cloak anymore. It looked like the mouth of a cave. Dark. Deep. She could walk forward and step into the space Wrought occupied. Warm air washed over her, like she was sitting in front of a fire. It would be dry in there. A shelter to wait out the storm. Safe. Nothing bad could find her. No rain. No worms. Her feet took a step towards Wrought and the creature spread its arms, the cave entrance yawning ever wider. It towered upward and outward, a hole cut in the sky, in the earth. A warm, welcoming embrace. A second step.

Her oversized boots caught on a rock and she stubbed her toe.

"I have to find my mom!" she blurted out, but she didn't know why. It just seemed like the right thing to say.

"Oh," said Wrought. "You're the other kind of Lost Thing then. That's fine."

She blinked. The cave mouth was gone. Only a shabby, tattered, soaking lump of cloth stood hunched before her, two hands clasped over a dripping leather satchel. She shook her head, feeling tired.

"What's the other kind of Lost Thing?" she asked.

"One that's still remembered," Wrought replied. They held out a hand, vaguely outlined by a drape of wet cloth. "Come on. Let's go find your mother."

She took the hand. Beneath the sodden fabric, it was very warm. Together they walked along the edge of the creek. Wrought asked Jurian about her mother. What did she look like? Sound like? Smell like? What was her favorite flower? How did she start the day? What color were her eyes?

As they moved, the creek stayed the same, but everything else changed. One step and they were in a forest. Another step and they were in a meadow. A third step and they were on a thin dirt path. Her grip on Wrought's hand shifted. It had been warm before, but now it was cold and small. It trembled in her fingers. A fourth step. The path was gravel and lined with flowers. Wrought suppressed a cough. Then another. A fifth step. The gravel became cobble stones. Wrought's hand twitched and jerked, almost yanking Jurian off her feet.  Through the cloth it felt hard, like stone, with sharp bits poking through. Wrought's breathing became ragged. The light from their cowl flickered and dimmed.

"Waterdeep. Your mother lives in Waterdeep?" Wrought asked her. "Oh dear, oh dear," they said, before Jurian could reply. "Yes, we fear that's true. Oh dear."

They stopped. The path beneath them was a dirt road now. In the distance, she could see lights. Wrought let go of her hand, wheezing and doubled over. They clutched their arms around their stomach.

"Are you okay?" she asked them.

"Yes, yes," they said impatiently between gasps. "Of course. Perfectly fine. No need. To worry. On our account. Certainly not."

She reached out and caught the edge of their cloak. Wrought snarled like a wounded beast and ripped the cloth away.

"Don't touch us! Don't touch us!" they spat, voice far deeper than any Jurian had heard from them before. "We're not here. Not here at all. We'll eat you up!"

Adults said that all the time when they were playing. "I'll eat you up!" they'd declare in a goofy voice and chase her around until they were both breathless and giggling. Wrought didn't sound like they were about to laugh. They sounded like they meant it. Like a monster in a story would mean it.

She took a step back, torn between the impulse to flee and the desire to help.

"You're my friend," she said, and it almost felt true.

"No, no," Wrought shook their head. "We're a Lost Thing. Nobody remembers us. Friends are for remembering."

"I'll remember you," she told them.

"No, you won't," Wrought replied with grim finality. "We're not the other kind. Some days, we don't even remember us. Why should you?"

Jurian didn't know what to say. She stood still, watching. Wrought shook their head again, crossing their arms. Their breathing slowed. Eventually the hooded head came up and turned towards the city lights.

"Too far for a child to walk, isn't it," they said. "Wouldn't do to go right now. Terrible things can happen on an empty road all alone. Awful, terrible things. We'd never live it down. No, no, have to see it through."

The creature straightened up, still slouching, but with a determined set to their shoulders. They held out their hand again. Jurian regarded it a solemn moment before finally taking it. Wrought's glowing orb of a face looked down at her.

"We'll get you as close as we can," they said, "but we may say…unkind things. You must not listen to us. We won't…" the voice quivered, but they pressed on, "We won't expect you to forgive us. We hope you'll just forget us."

"I'll remember," she said stubbornly. It felt like a point of pride, now.

"We'll see," Wrought said, and they stepped forward.

The dirt road became gravel. Rough buildings sprouted around them. Wrought's head darted back and forth, emitting a soft whine. The hand holding Jurian's squirmed. Another step. The road was cobbles, the buildings taller, lights brighter. The sound of laughter from an inn nearby made Wrought flinch, breath short and rapid. They clutched Jurian's fingers a little too hard. "Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear," they whispered to themselves, over and over. Another step.

Jurian knew where she was. This was just down the street from her mother's home.

"This is it!" she exclaimed. "I know this place, Wrought! I know…"

Wrought's hand slipped from her grasp. She turned and reflexively flinched away from a blow, barely ducking in time. Wrought's cloak billowed and shook, like a thousand hands were punching and pushing against the cloth from the inside, lashing out at Jurian. The material began to fail, ripping and tearing, seams popping. The glow of Wrought's face flickered rapidly, a thousand colors that hurt to look at. Jurian thought of worms again. Squirming things.

_scritch scritch_

The sound filled her ears, a horrible, wet, squeaking scrape. Over and over.

_scritch scritch scritch scritch_

"Wrought?" her voice was a feeble whisper. The cowl turned towards her.

" _You'll never remember him,"_ a thousand voices said. One of them sounded like her brother. One of them sounded like father. Another she could not recognize, but it chilled her to the bone. " _Not really. Only the stories about him. Never the man. Your father is gone. Your true memories of him are Lost Things now, and we are always hungry for Lost Things."_

"That - that doesn't make any sense! Of course I remember father! I remember everything about him!" she shouted at the creature that had almost been her friend.

Wrought stretched and contorted upward, cloak straining as gangly arms sprouted from their sides. They towered over her like a gigantic writhing millipede, then folded in the half, thrusting their face of flickering color right in front of her nose. " _How can you say that,"_ jeered their voices, _"when you can't even remember this morning?"_

 _I FEED ON YOUR INTENTIONS,_ thundered a voice in her mind, but she shied away.

It wasn't true. She knew what happened this morning. Her dress a shiny new lavender. Brother's boots shuffling through the grass. Sunshine on her face. Father was there. He'd given her the marionette. She remembered. His eyes, his chin, his cheeks, she'd seen his features a hundred times, they were clear, so clear. Her gaze turned toward him, he looked down at her…

His head was full of worms. Writhing like tentacles on a strange, alien face.

"I can't remember," she whispered. Her eyes stung with gathering tears.

Wrought laughed. " _Coming to Waterdeep always makes us_ so _hungry,"_ they said. " _How much do you love your brother, Jurian? We'd love to eat him."_

She fled.

Her oversized boots weighed her down. Heavy, clomping awkwardly on the cobblestone streets. She stumbled, blisters bursting, feet numb. Tripped. 

Wrought fell upon her like a rabid wolf.

The cloak opened wide and a blast of furnace heat scalded Jurian's face. Inside was no safe shelter. No welcoming embrace. It was a hole in the world and it screamed with wrongness, detesting itself. Air began whistling past her ears, drawn into that empty space. She felt her back begin to slide against the cobbles, the tattered ends of her lavender dress flailing wildly as the void pulled her in.

" _This is why we stay forgotten,"_ Wrought howled. " _We're Lost Things for a reason, Jurian! Do you still think we're your friend? Do you? DO YOU?"_

She shrieked and with a fury born of fear and betrayal, lashed out with the marionette, striking Wrought across their flickering face of sickening light. The delicate ebonwood carving burst into pieces, scattering everywhere. Wrought reared back, shrieking, and Jurian scrambled to her feet.

 _"RUN!"_ Wrought screamed at her with their many voices. " _RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN!"_

Later, when her mother asked her how she'd gotten there, Jurian had no answer.

Those memories were Lost Things.


	3. Resiliency

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Partially set [during the battle between the EPA and the Balor.](https://youtu.be/n0ReqUx0INs?t=2779)

You cannot kill an idea, they say.

An entirely mortal conceit. Of course ideas can be killed.

Ideas die every day. Passing thoughts that gain no purchase. Outdated understandings replaced and forgotten. Libraries burned, their contents lost to history.

Mortals wish to believe ideas immune to death because mortals take comfort in pretending their finite lives leave eternal impressions. The quasi-plane of elemental vacuum knows better. When fragile shells of consciousness cry out, "I want to live!" the desire dies with them all the same.

This time is no different, even if the sheer quantity might be a little above average. Each wood elf gasps, suffocates, and succumbs. One more sacrifice for the war made in vain, but believed necessary.

_I want to live!_

The thought fades every time and the idea dies with its progenitor. Lost. Yet something forms where nothing should be. Unremarked by the elemental vacuum, the remnants of those dead ideas accrete. The result is not alive, strictly speaking. The quasi-plane of elemental vacuum is inimical to life. Yet it is not dead either. It is…a collection. A grain of sand that attracts other grains like it.

_I want to live!_

The build-up becomes noted. Then a nuisance. Then intolerable. Sentience does not exist in the quasi-plane of elemental vacuum, yet it possesses an innate hatred of living things. Such is its nature. And it may hate this life that is not life most of all. The vacuum tears at the fragments, pulls them, stretches them, swallows them. The scraps part and reform, connected by the weakest of bonds that nonetheless cannot be permanently sundered. It endures, grows, and the void despises it.

More lives enter the quasi-plane. More ideas die. Life, light, heat, hope, all gone. All lost to the cold, malevolent vacuum. Except for the pieces that will not surrender.

_I want to live!_

It cannot be allowed to continue. The void ceases to tear. Instead it condenses. Compacts the fragments, gathers each and every one, across time and space, accelerates the work of eons to a single imperceptible moment. Coats the collection in loathing, binds it with hatred, wraps it in detested substance. Light flickers within. The quasi-plane of elemental vacuum spits it out. A birth, if such a term can be applied.

On an isolated peak ravaged by wind, barren and lifeless, a dark blob pushes itself up on many hands. Its form wavers. Light dims, the shape becomes transparent, and for a moment it nearly disappears.

"We…want to... _live_ ," it gasps, in many voices.

In a blink, the dark shape solidifies, heavy and dense. Wind plays with the tattered and trailing fabric of a dark cloak. A single orb of shifting light grows within the cowl, pulsing with energy. "We want to live," it says again, and even it does not know if it speaks in fear or in wonder.

Ideas _can_ die.

They're also incredibly hard to kill.


	4. Archivist's Notes

_Journal Excerpt 1 from Archive Item #593-A_

_A tattered notebook. Found in the ruins of a city without name or record, during Archivist Joral's dig in the summer of 1482. Oddly the dates within the document are later than the time of its recovery, despite the apparent age of the artifact. Cover is stained with multiple unknown fluids. Many pages are missing, some torn out and others detached from the binding, but what remains of the book is shockingly well preserved. The ink color varies throughout. This particular entry is green. At least, most of the time._

 

> 3rd of Flamerule, 1494
> 
> Dark here. Lots of new friends though! Although...can you be friends with someone who is dead? Are walking skeletons dead? If they are, then are we dead? We're not exactly alive. I'm not sure we have a skeleton even.
> 
> We may be getting off subject.
> 
> We're corporeal this time, because of course we are, it's damp and cold and nothing like a nice beach or a lovely garden, so naturally we're here in the flesh, such that it is. Not that we're bitter (some of us are very salty though) about it. Anyway, we were thinking about the color of the sky and the number 77 and whether we should get new shoes when we Stepped here. So note that in the logs. Or, I guess we just did. It is noted! Good job team! Coordinates unknown. Plane unknown. Maybe one of these skeletons knows.
> 
> Oh dear. The skeletons were not as friendly as we ho

 

_A long scratch of ink mars the page._

 

> HAHAHA THEY GOT ONE OF MY SHOES OH DEAR. OH DEAR WE SHOULD RUN FASTER NOW. Sorry, will take more notes later, very sorry. BYE BYE BYE B

 

_A small pen sketch of a cube with a crude smiley face._

 

> After the skeletons expressed their desire for us to leave (completely understandable) we made a new friend called a slime. It had a busy schedule, so after we dragged ourself out of its way we waved good-bye and continued searching for the Lost Thing that brought us here.

 

_The handwriting changes here, as does the ink color. A deep purple? At least, to this Archivist's eyes, it appears so. I think._ _They always did tell me working by candlelight would ruin my sight. Ah well, too late to change bad habits now._

 

> Oh! Hello there!

 

_Green again. What was this? Some sort of communal journal?_

 

> (There is a small furry foot with a silver chain wedged in a crack.)

 

_That weird purple(?) again. Reminds me of my grandmother's favorite hat. Huge floppy thing. Where did that end up anyway? I could have sworn...ah. Well. Maybe we buried her with it. I seem to have forgotten. Huh. Haven't thought about that in years..._

 

> What's that? You are an Unlucky Foot? Ahh, but your former owner thought otherwise? I see. That explains the irate skeletons. Shh, shh, it's not your fault. None of us can help how we're made.

 

_And yet again to green. Looks like they were running out of ink, whoever wrote this. They must have thinned out the dregs. The letters are almost impossible to read by the end._

 

> It looks like we're fading again. This Unlucky Foot must have been the Lost Thing that wished to join our journey! How wonderful! She'll fit right in. I wonder where we'll end up next? Oh, add that to the log, that we're wondering about that. And also thinking about shoes.
> 
> Speaking of: If anybody happens to be in the Swamp Hills of Oblivion and finds a left shoe, we'd very much like it back. We can't go looking for it, because it won't become a Lost Thing unless all of us forget about it, at which point we won't know to go looking for it.
> 
> ALSO THERE ARE SKELETONS THERE. Sorry, should have mentioned that first. They might be nice skeletons though. Just because they don't like someones like us doesn't mean they won't like someone like you. You're a lovely person, after all! You'll be fine.

 

_No skeletons, animate or otherwise, were found at the site. However, cross-referencing dig notes, there is a record of a left shoe being found. Cataloged as #539-F, but upon examination of the storage container for that item, it was found empty._

 

* * *

 

_Journal Excerpt 2 from Archive Item #593-A_

_By date these entries are sequential, although the description of location is vastly different. This ink is sky blue._

 

> 4th of Flamerule, 1494
> 
> The fade passed quickly this time. We are in...a shop? By the light it is early morning. The locks are set and we won't disturb them, because that would make us a poor guest. There are sure a lot of shiny things in here! Fabric. Buttons. String. Is that...bone? No, no that's baleen. Silly. Pff, who can't tell bone apart from baleen? Hmm. There's a half-person made of cloth here, but no head or legs. What are you, sir or madam or gentleperson? A dress form? Nice to meet you! What is made here?

 

_A pen sketch of a dress form. Like the cube before, this also bears a crude smiley face. The sketch of the object is fairly well done, but the smiley face is jagged and blotted, as though someone defaced the drawing after the fact._

 

> This shop belongs to a corsetier. The dress form says he's nice, but sticks him full of pins a lot, which he says he doesn't mind. I don't know if I'd be comfortable with that though! The dress form assures me that such a thing is very normal. What is the phrase? Don't yum yuck?
> 
> There is noise at the door. Perhaps the owner is here! Maybe he will let me try on some of his nice creations? They all seem very posh. They talk with these fancy accents and everything.

 

_Another drawing, this by perhaps a third hand. A screaming cloud, or perhaps a ghost, is depicted. Crude sad faces have been drawn around it._

 

> Any advice on how to extricate a screaming man from a closet? The owner of the shop came in, took one look at us, and...well...I suppose from my question you can guess the rest. He seems nice though! If...a little shrill.

 

_A pen sketch of...a goblin? The ink is very green. The text references an unknown person by name of "Strahn the wise." Advise further research._

 

> On the advice of Strahn the wise, we locked the shop door and one of our number who once was a child spoke in her single voice to the man hiding in the closet. He is not responding yet, but the screaming stopped. Now a different sound. His breathing sounds bad.
> 
> "Miranda?" he says. The part of us that was once a child does not recognize the name. "I thought you were dead," he's saying. "Lost at sea, with father, when the ship wrecked. But...no, that's impossible. That was fifty years ago!" He sounds angry. He's opening the door.

 

_An incredibly detailed sketch of a man, but the face is...obscured? When I look directly at it, I am amazed at how lifelike the features are, but when I look away I cannot recall them. Request services of the Archivist Wizard for followup._

 

> It is quiet now. The dress frame...refuses to speak to us. And the clothes from the shop follow his lead. They want us to leave, but something holds us here. Even after all that's happened.
> 
> The man thought it a trick at first. He was angry when he came out. So angry. The part of us that was once a child continued to speak to him in comforting words, the most comforting we could think of. Then he began to cry. He pleaded for us to give her back. "Miranda! Please! I tried to forget her. I tried so hard, that some days I even succeeded. But it was wrong! I want her back! She was my sister. IS my sister. Just let us see her again!"
> 
> We opened the way. Perhaps that was wrong. But he was so sad. So...lost.
> 
> And it made us very hungry.
> 
> He stepped inside. We did not force him to go. We never force any of them to.
> 
> Maybe he will become a part of us. We feel him inside, still. A Lost Thing. He's... Wait! We feel him fading. His voice is going gray now. And the other, the part of us that once was a child, a little lost girl, out on an ocean island of rocks, she is fading too. They are gone. No longer a part of us. No longer Lost Things.
> 
> But they are not here.
> 
> Ah. We feel a Step coming again. The fade is upon us as well. We are less, but hopefully, somewhere, someone else is more.
> 
> Someone named Miranda.

 

_Excerpt copied on 20th of Flamerule, 1502, for re-opening of Corsetier's missing person's cold case._

 

* * *

 

  _Journal Excerpt 3? from Archive Item #593-A_

_These pages were not here before. I opened the storage container and found it full of ashes. My eyes watered from the potent odor of rotten eggs. For a moment I thought someone broke in and vandalized one of our archived items, but why only this box? When I put my hand inside I found the tattered book, but fuller, more intact. Where ragged edges were before, I now find new pages, the paper ashen in color and powdery to the touch._

_Is this some kind of joke??_

 

> 5th of Flamerule, 1494
> 
> The Step is swift this time, from cold to hot. We dearly miss our left shoe, as the floor is hot here. Too hot. We are hopping around most of the time. This passage is narrow, between walls, and smells of brimstone.
> 
> Through the walls we hear people speaking a harsh language. It rattles in our ears and cuts and squirms. Ah, ah, it stings and brings
> 
> such thoughts
> 
> oh, such reeking thoughts.
> 
> Demons. This is a home of demons.
> 
> How...haaahhhhhhhhh...

 

_The ink starts ocher, but then fades to rust red. The letters hot to the touch. I can feel their warmth when I hold my fingers above the page, like old coals. This is written in another language. Infernal I think? But an archaic version. I'll fetch my Rune Keeper Glasses. For documentation purposes, I will denote everything written in this new language in bold.  
_

 

> **how delightful**

 

_...I have a bad feeling about this.  
_

 

> We are...remembering...?
> 
> Oh. oh dear.
> 
> Oh **De** Ar o **H** **de** AR O **H DEAR**
> 
> **hhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh**
> 
> **I feel...good**
> 
> **I have been here before, on this plane. Hunted here. Feasted here. I recall now.**  
>    
>  **They have a name for me down here. Such a glorious name. I wonder what it was? I wonder if I can find it?**  
>    
>  **Maybe then…I can remain.**  
>    
>  **I will hunt down one who knows and wring the secret from them.**  
>    
>  **But first…I will hunt down many who do not know, for I have wallowed in self-pity long enough.**

 

_There are dark stains on these pages. Splashes of...some substance I hesitate to speculate on._

 

> **The creatures are alert to my presence now. Yes. YES. Marshal forces! This is the purpose for which I was born! The war ever rages, and I am its engine.**
> 
> **We detest life. ALL life. But especially creatures such as these, who answer the call of drow. Desecrating the natural order of things. Blot them out.**
> 
> **No, not "we." I.**
> 
> **I!**
> 
> **I hate them all! I destroy! I feed! Not we, there is no WE.**
> 
> **I WILL NOT LISTEN.**

 

_Some of the pages are stuck together, merged into one by whatever fluids they were covered in, and -- oh gods, this page is wet! I must have spilled...something. A drink of some sort, nasty habit, can't get the day started without a cup of that newfangled Waterdavian brew. That must be why my hands are shaking too. Another bad habit, that's all._

 

> **At last I found one who knows me. I am surprised it took so long. I thought these things would remember me better after the last time. How long has it been?**  
>    
>  **He speaks as though I am a legend. A fairy tale for bad children. Have I been forgotten? He utters my name with the last of his breath…**  
>    
>  **Yes. Yes! I feel the rightness of this name. With this I shall travel to all realms and feast!  I shall consume all life! I shall…**  
>    
>  **I…**  
>    
>  **I know this feeling.**  
>    
>  **My name was known by only one creature, but now he is dead, and no others recall it. Everyone has forgotten my name.**  
>    
>  **It is…a Lost Thing.**  
>    
>  **And I just found it.**  
>    
>  **No. NO! The Fade is upon me! Upon**  
>    
>  us  
>    
>  **I will not go! I will not be lost again! I will not become**  
>    
>  a Lost Thing. We are. So many.  
>    
>  Lost.  
>    
>  Things.

 

_...I think I need some time off._

 

* * *

 

_Journal Excerpt 4? from Archive Item #593-A_

_I don't know how this thing got in my house. Archived items are not allowed to leave the facility. I distinctly remember checking it back in at the desk! I signed out! I'm good at my job, let the record reflect that, you'll see if you look at the sheet of signatures. That's why...that's why I'm continuing to record this. It's because I take pride in my work. That's why my pen is moving, why my fingers are holding the paper (how can the pen be moving if both hands are holding these pages?) why my eyes are reading these ancient words, they have to be ancient, never mind the date, they were found in an ancient RUIN those don't happen in a day, this was buried under rubble and that makes it old, too old to have relevance, too old to be remembered._

_Just like me someday. Just like us all._

 

> 5th of Flamerule, 1494  
>    
>  The Step felt like a long one, but our pen shows that less than a day has passed since the shop. The foot without a shoe is wet. Did we appear in a puddle? It's so dark in here. Dusty too. Hmm.  
>    
>  Oh.
> 
> Someone has written in our book. How rude! Their penmanship is awful. And what an ugly ink color. A brown...red?

 

_A blank page. Is it over? Please, let it be -- oh no, there's more on the next._

 

> We'll just rip these pieces out.

 

_The...the new pages just disappeared from the book. Oh! Oh, no, they're in my hands. Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear. Why am I -- No! No, what am I doing? An Archivist's job is to PRESERVE artifacts, not --!_

 

> And tear them up.

 

_Oh no no no I'm going to lose my job over this. Bad enough to steal (I DIDN'T STEAL ANYTHING I WOULD NEVER) this box from the archive, but this? Maybe I can get the Archivist Wizard to perform a Mending? Will that work?? I have to fix this! Maybe there's something in this drawer...  
_

 

> We...we have a box of matches somewhere.

 

_This isn't what I meant. Stop that! Don't you dare! Are you trying to burn the house down?? Please! Please don't! Not the papers! It's my livelihood, don't you understand? It's all I have! I've worked there fifty years! I've a distinguished reputation! If they find out I destroyed -- Please! PLEASE DON'T! PLEASE STOP!!_

 

> Yes. There. That's better. Just ash now. Just ash.  
>    
>  *dusts off several sets of hands*

 

_Dusts off my single set of hands._

 

> Well! That's...hmm...what was it we were talking about? Where'd this soot come from? Anyway, this place seems pretty run down. Looks like we're in for a quiet day. How has everyone else been? Hopefully you're all doing well! We certainly are.

 

_The sun is shining so cheerfully. I have a good feeling about today._

_I should do some cleaning. The dust on the table is so thick, it almost looks like ash! Maybe once I'm employed, I'll be able to hire a cleaning service to help around here. I keep thinking something else should be on the table...a box of some kind? It silly. It just seems like there's a space that's too empty. I have that nagging feeling I've lost something, but I can't remember what. Maybe Gran Gran's purple hat? I should check the attic. I bet it's in a box somewhere._

_I wonder if the Archivists are hiring? I should apply._

_I bet I could be good at that._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The journal excerpts were originally posted on Twitter as an experiment. I decided to record them in a more collected form here, adding in the Archivist to help bridge the gap between tweets where time passed. As with most of my writing experiences, it started to gain a life of its own.
> 
> The Archivist became an unanticipated casualty.


End file.
